


The Upgrade

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Closet Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pining, Robot Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, dubcon, female terms used for zenyatta's sexual organs, slight body break, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 22:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10260275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Zenyatta installs an upgrade and gets more than he bargained for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is more dubcon than anything, but I like to overtag just in case. Enjoy!

Zenyatta had hoped the upgrade would grant him a better understanding of humans. Sex, he had read, was something that many used to show their affection for one another, to bring themselves and their partners closer together. Procuring the fabrication was not difficult; Athena had been most helpful in pulling recommendations, and humans were resourceful creatures: if there was a want, there was a solution.

However, acclimating to the new installation proved difficult. The manual directed users to perform sensitivity recalibrations to ensure optimal results, which he had followed precisely. Perhaps too well.

Every sensation bloomed against his chassis after the system adjustment, no matter how slight. The shift in air temperature, the rustling of his clothes, the smoothness of his orbs against the column of his throat. His processors raced at the strangest details: Genji’s pink, scarred lips as he ate, the smell of McCree as he passed, sweat, tobacco and old leather, the sway of Hana and Lucio’s bodies as they danced to one of his songs.

Sometimes it was easy enough to ignore, left him wondering if this was how humans felt all the time, bodies thrumming, gentle tugs of want blooming within, a whispering, distracting _need_  from the slightest stimuli. Usually, Zen retired to the privacy of his own bed, cradled by (stiff, slightly rough) sheets, before shakily sliding a hand into his loose pants. He enjoyed powering down his sensory array and just _feeling_ , glide a smooth metal fingertip around his swollen synthetic clit, tease across the teal folds, dipping lower, rubbing inside, sometimes so needy he would shut off his voicebox, not trusting himself to keep quiet.

This time, however, Zenyatta does not have the benefit of privacy when the need hits. It has been a long time, an extended mission keeping him from maintenance for nearly a month. On his return, he stumbles upon McCree and Agent Hanzo, curled in each other’s arms, the quiet smacking of lips and skin picked up by his sensors.

Hanzo looks different, a half-shorn pate and piercings that catch in the low light. Zenyatta stares, frozen, too far away yet to be spotted, but they aren’t exactly in private, liplocked in the middle of the watchpoint hallway in a heavy traffic area.

He hears Hanzo whisper against McCree’s throat, and the man growls in turn, fisting his metal hand into the smaller man’s topknot and pulling him in for another kiss. Zenyatta feels his insides depressurize, the first twist-ache-swell of arousal processes swiftly gaining high priority. The kissing lasts only a few seconds, Hanzo breaking it to slide to his knees, all liquid grace, McCree’s hand still twisted in his hair. The archer mouths at the bulge beneath McCree’s belt buckle, and that’s when Zenyatta notices a pinpoint of light. Another piercing, centered in the middle of Hanzo’s tongue.

Zenyatta retreats at last, image burned into his sensory array, trapped on a feedback loop. He feels breathless, though he doesn’t have to breathe, legs shaking as his lower body pulses to life, smaller maintenance protocols ignored to give such a pressing issue the highest importance.

He’s not sure where he is, runs as fast as his legs would take him. Zenyatta slips into the nearest unlocked door, knowing he won’t be able to make it back to his room, that there’s no way he can avoid touching himself for that long.

It’s a closet, mostly empty: the door slides closed with a quiet hiss. Zenyatta collapses against the back wall, tugs his pants down just far enough to expose himself to the dusty, stale air. One finger circles his teal nub, the other stroking his entrance, spreading the beginnings of dripping slick along his mesh folds. His orbs clatter to the floor, and he moans, hot and electric, head smacking against the closet wall, relief palpable when finally gets his hands on himself. Too needy to tease, he shoves his index finger inside, grunting at the burn; his insides recalibrate, adapting to the sudden intrusion, tight but bearable, more slick releasing to ease the motion. He pumps his hand to the second knuckle, too quick, but he welcomes the gentle pain, other hand pressing his clit, almost too rough.

Zenyatta powers off his array, remembers the humans locked in each other’s arms, heated, happy, wanting. Would they feel soft? Hot? He imagines letting himself be seen. They stop for a moment, staring with heated eyes. McCree would extend his hand, chin tilted up, challenging. Hanzo’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips, no less interested, tongue piercing glinting. Zenyatta chirps, imagines that piece of metal bumping against his clit, Hanzo teasing him apart with his tongue while the cowboy bites and kisses the sensors on his neck, smoke and promises and whispers, beard scratching against each sensitive node.

Two fingers now, too busy fucking himself on his hand to unplug his voicebox, quiet little cracks of static bursting from his core, hoping faintly the door is enough to stymie his cries. Lube coats his fingers in spurts, slicks his thighs, dribbles down his leg paneling. His mind wanders, heightened, replaying scenes in his mind, the catalogue of details. Genji performing kata, vents steaming in the cold, Reinhardt finishing his final set on the bench, muscles rippling, flexing with Zarya as they both sweat and laugh, trying to outdo each other, affectionate. They  corner him, gripping him in their arms, huge and powerful. Ms. Vaswani traces his chassis with a perfectly lacquered nail, murmuring hot praise about his symmetry. Too far gone, shame burning along his circuits, filthy, using his team, his friends in this way.

He adds a third finger easily, too wet and stretched to hurt at all, stimulating his insides, the silky-wet pulsing of his cunt sucking at his digits. He curls them, finding the spot that fires warning protocols through his systems. His legs nearly buckle, fingers quickening, circling his clit, metal finger tips molten against it, hasn’t released his steam properly, body hot to the touch.

The quiet hiss of the closet door opening doesn’t stay his fingers; Zenyatta barely realizes the sound for what it is, too low on his list of processes, surging toward his peak. His sensory array flickers on, mindlessly staring forward.

In front of him stands a man, huge, silent, arms bulging, hands clenching, leather creaking, otherwise motionless, returning his stare.

It’s too late to stop, he’s peaking, warning protocols ratcheting inside, coming, systems shutting down, lesser requests terminating. It’s good, so good, working himself apart, fear and pleasure and shame tearing him into pieces.

He pants, a broken, groaning stutter, voicebox going haywire. The hissing release of slick down his thighs heard between his staccato whirring.

It takes him a minute to come down, fingers twitching, unable to stop, squeezing each burst of residual pleasure out of his systems. Cooling maintenance requests finally gain priority, and steam fogs his shell.

His sensors detect motion, and he stiffens, remembering himself. The man lingers in the doorway, backlit by flickering halogen lights.

“M-mr. Rutledge.” Zenyatta tries, voice glitching, still trying to restructure his mental processes, to regain to some sense of normalcy. Mustering the remnants of his dignity, Zenyatta tugs his pants up, winces at the rapidly cooling wetness plastering the fabric to his thighs.

The Junkers are not keen on him or other omnics, though their specific skill sets have been useful to Overwatch. Zenyatta takes no offense to their disdain, and they are never assigned the same missions, Winston and Jack avoiding teams that might make cooperation difficult. They avoid Zenyatta at the watchpoint, though Zenyatta greets them in passing. He can only think of their obvious aversion to him now, feeling trapped.

Roadhog gives nothing away, face obscured by the mask: the only sound is the hiss-click of his even breathing. Time stretches, an uncomfortable pull, the human impassive and silent.

“Is there…something you need?” Zenyatta asks, voice calmer than he feels.

Roadhog continues to stare.

“I mean no harm. Please, I only wish to pass.” Zenyatta takes a small step forward, arms poised in front of him.

Everything happens at once.

He gasps, forced against the wall by a massive hand flattened to his chassis. The door hisses closed, and the lights cut, his sensory array the only illumination in the darkness. Roadhog’s impressive mass swallows most of the space; his body temperature stifling. He smells like sweat, smoke, ozone, heady and strong.

A large calloused palm cups his neck, pressing against a line of sensors (rough skin, plush leather), stifling the shocked sounds of disbelief popping from his voicebox. Zenyatta’s hands scrabble against his massive forearm, trying to tug out of the hold, orbs glowing to life.

Danger. He did not wish to fight.

“Please–!” A tearing sound, his pants, then pressure. His body jerks against it, cries out, high and embarrassing; Roadhog’s blunt nail bumps against the swell of his clit before flipping (calloused, rough) to press the pads of his fingers against it, rolling once. Too much direct stimulation, too soon. Zenyatta grunts, tries to tug back but there’s nowhere to go. The human _towers_  over him, mask pressed along the side of his head, breath hot and wheezing through the mask.

The touch lessens, slides lower, rubbing between his thighs and along his pussy; his hand is huge, touching all of him at once, so fleshy and textured and soft, leather bumping over other lesser nodes around his groin, electric and too strange to process.

One hand shoots down to grab at Roadhog’s wrist, too large to even hold, metal fingers grasping uselessly against all that muscle and skin, orbs flickering and rolling against the floor, focus ruined.

Roadhog’s finger grows slick with his own lube, a silk soft glide that has him thrashing, dizzy. He feels his lower body depressurize, warm wetness leaking steadily again, insides giving an interested pulse.

“What are y-you–” Zenyatta slaps his head against the wall behind him, keening. Roadhog hoists him by the neck, feet scrabbling for purchase, both hands again grasping at the arm at his throat: it doesn’t hurt, he doesn’t need to breathe, but the thick pad of Roadhog’s thumb flicks against his entrance, pressing, teasing, tracing.

Unable to anticipate, afraid, exhilarated, helpless: nothing has ever felt like this before. Zenyatta jerks into the touch, but the finger shifts and slides between his thighs again, grazing against everything but nothing hard enough. Zenyatta whimpers.

A few rough, deep grunts: laughter. Zenyatta bristles, clipped, weak sounds bubbling from his voicebox. He tries and fails to stop his hips from dragging forward, uncertain but unable to ignore the hot clench of want overriding fear.

Roadhog swivels his hand, rolling, stroking, pressing too hard in the wrong places, making Zenyatta’s squirm, frustrated and off-kilter. He realizes each wayward touch is deliberate. A few quick, punctuated thrusts earns sweet little presses to his nub, and his array flickers, brightening. A rhythm achieved and extinguished. Again, a blunt finger nudges at his glistening opening, Zenyatta chirrups, hips stuttering,

“Please.” Zenyatta warbles, low and mortified. This man could kill him so easily.

It burns, a hot wet stretch of being breached, Roadhog’s finger alone larger than his three, and Zenyatta scores his forearm and moans as his body struggles to adjust. Everything shifts, expanding, slick and hot, another fresh jet of steam and heat bogging down his processors, too overheated for standard functions. There is no hesitance, no gentleness, just the constant slide of his insides sucking at the intrusion, catching finally against the leather of his glove.

Zenyatta cannot move, breath harsh and unnecessary, but he needs it. Roadhog begins to withdraw, and his pussy clenches like it can’t bare to let him go, his fingertip circling his quivering hole until it rudely shoves in again, harsh and quick. Zenyatta chokes on a scream, legs kicking out, shaking, exhaustion and pleasure and pain sending so many signals he can’t react to any.

A second finger works its way inside, and it hurts, but his thumb taps against his clit, distracting him, stymying Zenyatta’s struggles until the burn loses its edge, soft, hot and insistent. Almost bearable, he could do this, the fingers scissoring him, working him open wider than he’s ever been, and still it’s more. His voicebox goes haywire, clicking and cracking, fluttery little moans and whimpers peeling from him without thought, too loud. What if someone heard? What if someone saw? Came to investigate the strange sounds coming from an abandoned closet?

Zenyatta keens, tight and wild, clenching around the fingers inside him, grinding down, urging them deeper. Someone could see, someone could see him fucking himself on an human supremacist’s fingers. He feels close to it again, that building ebb and flow of pleasure buzzing through his systems, angling for a harder press of thumb against his clit, just a little more –

The fingers tug out of him, quick and rough, and Zenyatta groans brokenly as he’s shoved face first into the wall so hard it shakes the door on its rail. Impossible heat curls along his back, Roadhog’s huge stomach forcing him into an uncomfortable arch, blunt wet fingers locked almost entirely around his waist, holding him still, supporting him when his legs begin to quake.

A dripping, spongy bluntness nudges against his swollen hole. Roadhog widens his stance, angling forward; Zenyatta feels the pressure behind it, bearing down, but unable to slip inside. Panics floods him.

“B-b-b-ig. T-t-oo b-big.” Zenyatta wails, fingers twitching behind him, grabbing desperately for the cord at the base of his neck powering his voicebox. Roadhog grunts, annoyed, capturing his hand at his waist, holding both so easily in his enormous grip.

He continues to bear down, and Zenyatta spreads his legs, cunt recalibrating, jerking under the pressure. Warning protocols blip into his overworked system, a flood of slick depressurizing.  Then a thick, unbelievable give, his head sucks inside, ripping a scream from Zenyatta, broken and static. He wants to beg, to reason with him, but he’s so blitzed out and overstimulated he can only shake and moan. Inch after inch fucks into him without pause, each jerk scraping against his walls that twitch weakly around the intrusion. Zenyatta sobs, every node and sensor bursting and raw with stimulation.

Roadhog rumbles, deep and low, his pleased sounds joining Zenyatta’s sobs as his balls slap against the omnic’s cunt. His other hand settles on Zenyatta’s hip, angling him better to take his cock. He flattens Zenyatta to the wall, withdrawing an inch before bottoming out again, seeming to relish in just how deep he can bury himself within that slick, spasming hole. Roadhog’s breathing grows labored as he fucks deep and hard with a force that rattles the shelving.

Zenyatta wails, surely heard by anyone near them, the intense burn of the intrusion incinerating any higher processes than making noise and adjusting to the brutal pace. So much clicking, readjustments, widening: he feels a dangerous shifting of metal within his frame but then it’s enough. It’s enough and he’s wide and open and pain crashes into pleasure. The thrusts grow inconsistent, desperate, Roadhog grunting like a beast as he pistons into the omnic like he was a toy to be used.

Zenyatta’s scream stops short, frying half his vocal range as his orgasm rips through him, unable to stop the excessive stimuli, taking everything even as his body short circuits and breaks around him, small little failures that coalesce into bigger ones. His insides clench, twist, restart, and he feels Roadhog’s cock pulsing, the man filling him with liquid heat, one long, harsh groan against the side of his head, satisfied.

He keeps thrusting, deep and slow, milking the last of his pleasure from Zenyatta. It seems to go on forever, every press sizzling, aching, inside. He withdraws with an easy, loose slide, the sound of slick hitting the floor obscene. Roadhog steps back, and Zenyatta crumples, hole clenching around nothing, broken, unable to tighten itself, slick and cum mixing into a creamy teal down his thighs and legs.

Roadhog picks up Zenyatta’s torn pants and wipes himself. He never says a word, and Zenyatta only realizes his departure when the door hisses open and closed.

He powers down, too many warning messages and low battery alerts rattling through his systems. He is so tired.

He sleeps.

–

Zenyatta reboots some time later, internal warnings waiting for manual input. Voicebox operating at 32% efficiency, diagnostics still working on the space between his legs, which aches and twitches, phantom pleasure signals sparking among the nodes. It takes him minutes to stand, orbs wobbling precariously until they lock around his throat (cold, smooth). He supports himself against the wall, attempts to dress himself as normally as he can (drafts where the fabric is torn, sticky, rough). He stares at the door, processes slow, still rebooting and organizing themselves.

Zenyatta hobbles back in the way he came, unsure of anything but the general direction. Each step sends shocks up his chassis, a twitch-jerk of grinding metal that spark false starts, dribble small pearls of slick down his already sticky legs.

His hand is on the door to his room when someone says his name.

“Zenyatta, good timing. Thought we could–” The gravely voice stutters, then stops. Zenyatta doesn’t have to turn to know it’s Commander Morrison coming to a halt a few feet behind him. He stops himself from flinching.

“What happened?” Morrison asks, gruff, tinged with concern.  Zenyatta turns to look at him as smoothly as he can. He can almost picture Jack’s scarred face behind the mask, tight frown drawing his lips thin.

“I am w-well.” Zenyatta says, inwardly cringing at the stutter in his voice. “There was something you wished to discuss, Commander?”

“It can wait.” The man reaches out, almost touches his shoulder but stops, hand dropping back to his side. “Are you sure you’re ok? You look…injured.”

Zenyatta musters as much serenity as he can when the man’s eyes assess him, his torn, stained clothes, filthy in the most incriminating way. Still he leaks, can smell the man’s body, leather and faint aftershave, and his body gives a traitorous pulse.

“It was nothing I d-did not welcome. If you will please e-excuse me.”

Zenyatta absconds, stepping as smoothly as he can into his quarters, falling back into the door when it hisses shut behind him.

The upgrade, rather than helping, has left him even more confused.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


End file.
